Gotta get back to Middle Earth
by Crimson Cupcake
Summary: Series of oneshots written to various prompts for Back to Middle-Earth Month, run by the SWG. Day 18/19: Albus Dumbledore has a unique visitor. From Himring. And Maedhros reflects on the burning flame that was once his father.
1. A journey

For Back to Middle-Earth Month, which is a Bingo came hosted by the Silmarillion Writer's Guild. I'll be posting as much as I have time for in the same story, with different chapters.

Day 1: i18 - Maglor the Mighty; rope-making

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><p>He watched them at the docks, hauling up their rope nets, trapped with fish. He saw the blisters on their hands, watched as their muscles strained and sweat poured from their brows. Then he watched as the fish flopped limply on the wooden docks, desperately trying to return to their watery home.<p>

All in all, Maglor thought, the Telerin fishermen of Alqualonde were to be admired.

A sea breeze wafted towards him, bringing with it the first ships of many. A beautiful swan glided into the bay, cutting through the water with deadly precision, white sails raised to catch the gentle wind on the clear, cloudless day. Maglor watched the fishermen pull at the ropes, tightening them here, loosening them there, and wondered how they knew. When and where, why and how?

Could _he_ try?

Maglor chuckled at the idea. _They_ must have known from the first moment of birth. They must have been born for a life on water. He was a Noldo, born for the hammer and the anvil.

But _could_ he? Was it possible? Would someone like him be able to hold his own against the breath of Arda?

Yes, Maglor decided, absently. Of course he could do it.

"Is it hard?" he asked one of the sailors on the docks. The Teler looked at him in bemusement.

"I beg your pardon, Macalaurë?"

The fisherman knew his name, but Maglor wasn't surprised. Everyone knew his name.

"Pulling the sails. Is it hard?"

The Teler's mouth split into a wicked grin. "Want to try?" he asked. Teasingly. A challenge.

Maglor was ready.

"Yes."

~i18~

The sea hit the bow of the ship, then splashed up all over him. Maglor could feel his clothes sticking to him, his intricately-braided hair coming loose. He could taste the salt of the water, could still feel the refreshing splash. A reprieve. But only momentary.

He pulled at the rope as hard as he could, already feeling blisters forming. It was easy to grasp—to feel the circular shape in his palm—and equally easy to pull. But hard to hold, as he was finding out. The rope slipped from his fingers, strained against his weight, groaned as the boat rose to the crest of a wave and dropped to the trough. The water didn't help.

Just three hours of holding it was enough for his hands to throb, for his muscles to scream, for his weight to be dragged forward by the strength of the wind. He loved holding it, but it was too much.

At the end of the hours, Maglor stepped off onto the docks, swaying from tiredness and from the boat's natural motion. He turned to the Telerin fisherman and grinned.

"That was fun," he said, then showed him his hands. "But I wouldn't want to go again."

The Teler laughed. "Most Noldor cannot even handle one hour," he replied. "Some are horrified by the idea of floating on water. Have you Telerin blood in you, Macalaurë?"

Maglor shook his head, and laughed. "I like the rope," he explained. "And the boat. Just not the pulling."

"What about smaller ropes, then? What about strings?"

~i18~

Years later, sitting at his harp, Maglor felt the smoothness of the strings against the tips of his long, elegant fingers. His blisters had long healed, but the memory had remained.

How different, he mused, music and sailing seemed to be. And yet how similar. The same ropes, the same tug and pull, the call of adventure. And the flowing sound of music was like a beautiful swan, cutting through the waves, forming a story of its own.

Yes, he thought absently, smiling. He could do it.


	2. Why?

Day 5: O68. Glorfindel and Ecthelion (don't worry, just friendship); Avallone on Tol Eressea.

Trying a different style... my style is always influenced by the things I'm reading now, so it'll probably change. I like this style and chapter, though.

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><p>Knock knock.<p>

The sound of knuckles rapping on wood seemed out of place in the house. It was small and neat and comfortable, much like a hobbit-hole, only it was not a hole, did not belong to a hobbit and the ceiling was not five feet high. It was not a place where one expected visitors.

There were several rooms which branched off the corridor, all of them filled to the brim with furniture, but only one of them was occupied. Glorfindel sat at a large oak desk, quill flying on parchment, pausing occasionally to dip it in an inkwell. The stroke of the quill moved precisely, diligently, carelessly. Drops of ink scattered onto the parchment, onto his pale arms, onto the piles of paper he had moved out of the way.

Papers were heaped around the room, lying here and there in untidy piles, some crumpled, some half-finished, some with strange drawings on them. The furniture—a table and chair, a black cabinet and a large bookshelf—seemed to cramp up the already-small room.

Glorfindel was so immersed in his work that he did not—or pretended not to—hear the knock.

Seconds passed.

Knock knock.

Silence.

Knock knock _knock_. His visitor was becoming impatient.

Glorfindel was definitely pretending to ignore the sound now.

_Knock knock knock knock bang crash bang bang_.

The golden-haired Elf looked up from his work with amusement. "Who's there?"

Silence for a moment. Then: _knock knock._

Glorfindel frowned. "Who's there?" he repeated again, louder.

_Knock knock. _Silence. _Knock... knock knock... knock..._ Silence. _Knock knock knock... knock. _

He knew that signal well enough. Glorfindel laughed. "How am I supposed to know who 'I' is, dear guest standing outside the door impatiently, about to break his knuckles? By all means, Ecthelion, come in!"

A series of knocks greeted his response. Glorfindel translated it from Morse code easily enough.

_L-O-C-K-E-D._

"Is it really?" Glorfindel asked. Reluctantly, he abandoned the report he was writing, waded his way through the sea of papers, out into the corridor then finally to the front door. He unbolted the door, and pulled it open.

"Old habits die hard, my friend," he said, apologetically.

After thousands of years, Ecthelion of the Fountain greeted him with typical aloofness. "Glorfindel of the Golden Flower," he said coldly. "I have gone to the trouble of travelling thousands of miles to Tol Eressëa of all places, with a plan of surprising you with my unanticipated entrance. Why, then, was I left standing outside your door, only being able to communicate in Morse code? Why in Arda is your door locked? This is Avállonë, not Imladris or wherever you have been living for the last few thousand years!"

Glorfindel gave him a half-amused smile. "Firstly, Ecthelion, you should know better than to attempt to surprise me. I remember you tried back in Gondolin where you planned to empty a bucket of water on my head—"

"Itarillë's plan," interrupted Ecthelion, turning vaguely pink.

"—and if you can remember, you upended it on not only the Lord of Gondolin himself, but on several of his most prized maps and battle plans—"

"—which is how I managed to gain myself a seat in his councils—"

"—but only _after_ you were confined to house arrest for three weeks—"

"—_two_ weeks—"

"—and you had to apologise most profusely afterwards and redraw all the plans you had ruined—"

"—thus I came to know everything about the war," Ecthelion finished smugly.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at him. Ecthelion raised one right back.

Then the two friends were laughing and embracing, their voices reaching the heavens. And Glorfindel ushered his long-lost friend inside, and closed the door and locked it. Ecthelion promptly unlocked it, which caused Glorfindel to apologise again.

"Why do you do it, my friend? What is there to fear in Aman, of all places?"

"It is but a habit," Glorfindel replied. "The Third Age of Middle Earth was full of fear and oppression. We locked all the doors at night and only opened them well into the morning, in fear of the spies of Sauron or, worse, the Nine. There was the matter of Elrond's chief counsellor, Erestor. You may not have heard of him, but he is a _most_ inquisitive Elf. Snooping around here and there, entering my room to see whether I had finished that report he had assigned me—"

"—which you hadn't—"

"—he only gave me two days! I had to guard my room from him. Now he lives just a few blocks away, down the street. Perhaps one day he will come in and try to steal my books—do not laugh, it has happened before. When I demanded them back, I found them so scribbled and filled with notes that the original text was barely readable."

Ecthelion laughed. "What adventures you had, my friend! Though I must say..." He looked around the room. "Your house is not very ... Elvish, is it? Is this a style you have picked up from Middle-Earth?"

"The Periannath have houses in this style," said Glorfindel. "No doubt you have heard of them. Frodo Baggins—"

"Yes, yes," said Ecthelion impatiently. "Though I do not know why they are more important than say, Lord Turukáno, or you and I. We fought evil head-on, while he skulked—"

"None of that here, Ecthelion! The Periannath were no doubt the saviours of Middle-Earth. Anyway, as I was saying, they have delightful houses to live in, and I have decided to fashion mine after their style."

"Why them, Glorfindel? Why not the style of the Elf-lords of old? Large marble hallways, stairs and banisters, arching ceilings, intricate tapestries, courtyards and gardens, rooms and rooms waiting to be unlocked. You have money enough."

For the first time, Glorfindel's gaze fell. "I cannot, my friend. You know that. It is too painful."

"Fair Ondolindë," Ecthelion breathed.

Glorfindel's smile returned, if slightly weaker than before. "Just be glad I did not fashion my house after the manner of the Dwarves."

Ecthelion grinned.

"That would be a nightmare indeed."


	3. Fanfiction

Characters discover fanfiction. Not one of my favourites, but I suppose it's okay. By the way, the stats are used with FFN, on the 7th of March, 2012. ^^

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><p>An excited shout rang through the House of Feanor. Curufin, as usual, was the first one to rush to his father's study. He expected to be met with a cloud of ash, dust and general chaos. Instead, his father was standing—very cleanly and neatly—next to what looked like a square box.<p>

Feanor was looking very smug. He was evidently waiting for Curufin to ask him what the box was.

Curufin asked him. "What's the box, father?"

"This, son, is a computer. It's a more advanced version of a palantir, where you can actually read things off it. And this—" he pointed to a smaller box next to the bigger box "—is a modem. It connects to the internet, which is to say, the blank space that fills up Ea. It links the fabric of space and time together."

By the time he finished, Maedhros, Caranthir and the twins were also there.

Feanor, who was unimpressed by his sons' punctuality, decided not to say anything about it. However, he decided he needed a fuller audience. "It _also_ can play music!" he yelled at the top of his voice. It barely took a second for Maglor to have appeared in the doorway, as if by magic.

"You _alllllsooooo_," Feanor shouted, "can use it to talk to girls!"

Celegorm crashed through the wall next to the computer.

Now that his entire audience was here, Feanor pointed to a button. "Curvo, press this."

His son obediently came up and did so.

The entire screen lit up, then turned into a blue-and-white-and-black page. "I present, my sons," said Feanor, his voice smug with superiority, "Fanfiction dot net."

"What's fanfiction dot net?" Amrod asked.

"I've heard of it!" said Maedhros suddenly. "It's where people write stories about us. Look, there's one with me and Maglor, and one with me, and atar, and Maglor, and me, and me and me and me... there are seventy-six of me!"

"You're just choosing the ones with you!" Caranthir snarled. "Look, there's exactly—" his face fell "—nine stories about me. _Nine!_" He fumed.

"That's because you never did anything interesting, Moryo," Curufin smirked. "Look. Eighteen with me. That's _double_ you. Turko, you have seventeen. Ambarussa ... they've put you in separately in the character list!"

Amrod and Amras gasped.

"Three for me," Amrod said.

"Two for me!" Amras said.

"That's nothing," they both said together, disappointed.

Maglor smiled to himself, and went to stand in front of the computer invention. "That's because you guys aren't famous," he said, still smiling. "Look, I'm sure there's many with me and my music. Sixty-nine!"

Celegorm began laughing at the number, and couldn't stop. "You may have a lot," he sneered, "but look at the genre. Angst, angst, angst, family/friendship, angst, angst—"

"I get it," Maglor snapped.

Feanor was grinning maliciously. "Now that you've all had a look, I suppose it's my turn to see how many—"

"_NO!"_ his seven sons bellowed, as one.

"Father, don't you have better things to do?" Curufin asked sweetly.

"Like make jewels?" Caranthir suggested.

"Or making those Silmarils," said Celegorm.

"Which _is_ a jewel," Maglor added, scathingly. He hadn't recovered from Celegorm's taunts yet.

"What about taking a bath," Maedhros suggested. Together, the four of them pushed their father out of the room.

Only Amrod and Amras remained.

"Thank the Valar," Amras said. "If father found out he only had sixty-one stories, he would go on a kinslaying."


	4. I'm angstier than you!

Turin vs Harry Potter.

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><p>The Boy Who Lived woke up to a scar which just <em>didn't stop prickling<em>. It was a few weeks after Sirius had died – well into the holidays of his sixth year. It was understandable that he had nightmares, yes. It was understandable that he'd wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat because of said nightmares. It was _not_ understandable for Voldemort to be having nightmares too, because why else would his scar hurt?

Now mentally scarred at the thought of Voldemort with nightmares, Harry crawled out of bed to turn on his bedside light. To his horror, just before he turned the light on, he found someone standing in his bedroom, looming over him, dark and ominous. And worst of all, the figure seemed to be covered in blood.

Harry fumbled for his wand, and pointed it rather clumsily at the figure. Voldemort was _not_ supposed to enter the household!

"How did you get in here? Who are you? Show yourself!" He wasn't seventeen yet, but he swore to Dumbledore he _would_ curse the figure. Or maybe light _lumos_. Or maybe turn on the light.

Harry shakily switched on the light, wondering why this had to happen to _him_ of all people. The room was bathed in a warm yellow glow.

The man standing in his room looked like he had just climbed out of a deadly fight in the sewers. He had long dark hair and was stained with blood, grime and dirt—and something that looked strangely like acid—and his eyes were strangely out of focus.

"So this is what the afterlife looks like," he muttered.

"What?" asked Harry. "Who the hell are you?"

"I am called many things: Túrin, Turambar, Mormegil, Agarwaen Neithan, Gorthol, Thurin, Adanedhel, Turmbar and Blacksword."

Harry gaped. "Is this a new trend or something? First it was no names. Now it's too many names to count!"

"If that is too many for you," said the stranger, "call me Túrin Turambar."

"Harry Potter," said Harry, eyeing the stranger cautiously. "How did you get inside my house?"

"I died," Túrin said emotionlessly.

"Wonderful," Harry muttered. "Now I have some raving mad nutter in my house. Why me? I mean, my parents died when I was an orphan! I was sent to my uncle and aunt who hate my guts, and a cousin who bullied me wherever I went. Now I found that the Dark Lord is trying to kill me, my godfather dies, and some dead man is standing in my room."

Túrin's eyes narrowed. "Dark Lord? Morgoth is in this world also?"

"Is that a new name for Voldemort? Oh I see! You think Voldemort, You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named are three different _names _for him, that's why you decided to give yourself lots of names."

"Who is this Woldewort?" Túrin snapped. "I speak of Morgoth Bauglir, the Dark Power of the World, who resides behind his Black Gate in the accursed land of Angband."

"Great, now this nutter hallucinates as well," Harry complained. "Why me? Why not Ron? He lives a perfect life! What about Hermione? She hasn't been through half the things I have! And Neville—"

"Stop your nattering!" Túrin growled. "Your life is heaven compared to mine. You have a roof, and friends. My father went to war in the army of the High King, and never came back. I left my mother and unborn sister and went on a perilous journey. I fought my way out of capture of Orcs, led a band of men to ruin, killed my best friend, and lost a war for Nargothrond. I fell in love with my _own Valar-damned sister_. I stared down dragons!"

Harry stared. "I captured an egg from a dragon," he said sulkily.

Túrin kicked him.

-xox-

Námo, Lord of the Timeless Halls, sat in Mandos and watched a massive screen. His wife Vairë sat beside him, as well as a whole group of Valar including Lorien, Estë, Vána and even Manwë.

The Valar laughed.

"You were so right, Vána," Vairë said, giggling. "Introducing Túrin to Harri-Potta was such a good idea."

They watched the screen, and laughed again.

A few seconds later, Manwë got up. "Well, I think it's time I go help the Elves win the war. They've been at it for hundreds of years."

Lorien raised an eyebrow at him. "Would you really, Manwë? Túrin's about to start strangling him."

Manwë grinned, and sat back down again.


	5. O Romeo, Romeo

Prompt: Formenos (stronghold of Feanor), crossover with a mythical story (_Rapunzel_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ aren't really mythical, but whatever) and Everything is better in Space.

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><p>Eight Noldorin princes stared up at the towering, looming walls of the formidable fortress.<p>

"Well, this is our stop!" said Feanor cheerfully, dismounting his horse. He checked a word written on a piece of scrap parchment. "Yes. This is ... Formenos. Father should be already here. We need only to knock on the door and see if he answers. If he doesn't, we'll ride straight back home and tell Manwe to give us a better fortress. Who wants to knock?"

His sons were silent. Each of them was gazing up at the towers, the stained windows, the mystery of the corridors which hid ancient secrets. Maedhros wondered what secrets lurked under the facade of the building. Maglor wondered whether his haunting music would echo down the lonesome hallways, long untouched by Elvish hands.

Celegorm wondered how many Huans he could fit in the fortress.

Caranthir guessed what Celegorm was wondering, and stepped on his foot.

Curufin guessed that Caranthir had guessed what Celegorm was thinking, and punched him.

Amrod and Amras volunteered to knock. They walked up to the heavy oak doors and rapped their knuckles three times on the wood.

No one answered.

"Just a bit louder," said Feanor encouragingly.

They did so. No one answered.

"Well!" said Feanor, looking thoroughly cheerful. "I guess we'll just ride back to Manwe and say—"

The door opened at that exact moment. Finwe peered out, looking at seven hopeful faces and one very disappointed face. "My son and grandsons!" he boomed. "You have arrived at last."

"Yes, yes, father," said Feanor impatiently, pushing past him. "Have you settled everyth—" He paused as he looked inside, eyes wide with horror. Everything, from the chairs to the tea sets to the intricately woven tapestries, was _floating_.

"Father..." Feanor breathed, very, very slowly and very, very quietly. "_What_ have you done to my castle?"

"I thought you'd like to fly, my son!" Finwe beamed. "Everything is better in space, after all!"

"What—" Feanor began, before his sons stampeded him in order to get into the room. Maedhros kicked off a wall, and flew all the way down a long hallway. Maglor was reasoning that space was a vacuum, therefore no one would hear his music since there was no air for the sound waves to travel through. He was very depressed at the thought.

Celegorm had drifted up to the highest tower and had clipped long extensions to his hair. He then stuck his head out the window and let his blond extensions drop all the way down to the ground. "O Romeo, Romeo, whyfore art thou Romeo—"

Caranthir had found a large hammer and tried to swing it down on Celegorm's head. He missed, since Celegorm stuck his head out the window at that precise moment.

"Wrong character, idiot! You're Rapunzel. That's Juliet you're quoting."

Curufin smiled. "What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon."

Celegorm thought Curufin was telling him to kill Caranthir. He grabbed a nearby chainsaw, and thus began the greatest (and only) fight to ever ensue in space.

Amrod and Amras drifted straight back out of Formenos, and fled to their cousin Finrod's place.


	6. The power of magic

Prompt: Finrod Felagund vs Cedric Diggory (HP). By the way, I do like Cedric. I just enjoy... playing around with his character... and he means no harm, honest! xD

This is kind of a continuation from last chapter, since they're both for the same day.

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><p>"Come in, come in, dear cousins!" Finrod said happily, when he saw who was at the door. "I have a guest, but I am sure he will not mind two more. Tell me, Ambarussa, what has happened to make the two of you fly so desperately, out of breath and as pale as a ghost, to my home."<p>

Amrod and Amras exchanged glances, and decided Finrod _really_ did not need to know.

"We were in the vicinity," Amras said innocently, "and decided to drop by."

Finrod grinned cheerfully at them and invited them inside. On his green couch in his living room was a strange – a _Man_. Well, not really...

"He's _really_ pale," said Amrod.

"He's a ghost," said Amras.

Finrod fidgeted nervously. "The Valar wouldn't accept Men into Valinor, so he had to die before he could come... Ambarussa, meet Sed-ric Digori."

Cedric Diggory's ghost, previously pretending to recline on the couch, stood up and held out a ghostly hand. Amrod's hand passed right through him as he tried to shake his hand.

"What brings you to Valinor, Sed-ric?" Amrod asked.

"Oh, you know." Cedric flashed a charming smiled. "I found out one of the nicest people ever—" He cast Finrod a quick nod of acknowledgement "—was here so I decided to come and visit him."

Finrod beamed. "Thank you, Sed-ric. Would you all like some tea? I'll just fetch the pot—"

"No need," said Cedric and, with a wave of his ghost-wand, a tea pot appeared. He waved his wand vaguely around, and cups appeared. He poured the tea.

The Elves stared, fascinated.

"This is some good tea," said Amras, sipping it.

"Good tea should be accompanied by good music," said Finrod brightly. "I'll go and fetch my harp—"

"That music is _so_ old-fashioned," Cedric interrupted. "Here, let me show you some real music." He materialised a radio, and tapped it. "I present: Celestina Warbeck, the Singing Sorceress."

Sound began to come out of the radio. But it wasn't music. It was more like a screeching, a girl's high-pitched, out-of-tune voice shrieking at you through the device. Finrod and the twins listened for five seconds, then dashed out of the room.

"Never," Amrod panted, "let guests into your house again."

"Especially dead mortals," Amras added.

"Especially _wizards_," said Finrod grimly.


	7. Glorfindel the Gullible

I miss writing about Feanor. I really do. I absolutely _adore_ him. Of course, I portray him very differently in different genres, and this is how he is in crack.

The prompts today were 'Feanor hugged his kids (really, he did!)' and 'Namo - a kinder, gentler lord of Death'

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><p>"Fëanáro." The deep voice came out of nowhere, chiding gently.<p>

The Elf, who had been embodied for this very reason, sat in a corner of the room and ignored it.

"Fëanáro." No sign of impatience yet.

Fëanor shot the ceiling—where he thought the voice was coming from—a contemptuous glance, his handsome face twisted into an ugly snarl, and continued to ignore it.

"Curufinwë Fëanáro! If you ignore me one more time, I will throw you into the darkest depths of the Halls of Mandos and make sure you never see the light of day again!"

Yes, yes, definitely impatient now.

Fëanor turned around slowly, very slowly, with a derisive sneer. His chin was tilted high, his eyes narrowed, as if staring down the empty room. "Lord Námo," he said, speaking for the first time in centuries, "I have nothing to fear. You have assured me that will happen many times. That threat, I believe, has been used forty-seven times."

"...Apologies," said Mandos, who rarely uttered that word. But he really did think he needed a better threat. There was not much else he could do to make Fëanor's situation worse.

"Apology duly noted," said Fëanor delicately. "Now, what is it that you wanted to discuss? Who is here to see me? Have they brought my Silmarils? Come now, there must be someone to see me if you have embodied me, and placed me in an empty room. What about my sons? I suppose Kanafinwë hasn't brought the Silmarils hidden in some bag of his?

"You know Macalaurë is forbidden from these halls," said Mandos.

"I _know_ I am never supposed to see the light of day again," Fëanor mocked. "And yet here I am. Well, spit it out, dear Vala. I may have an eternity, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it." Very few would have the spirit to speak out against a Vala like that. Fëanor was lucky he was one of the few. Fëanor was also lucky there was very little else Mandos could do to him.

"A ... reporter is here," said Mandos reluctantly. "He said he wanted to interview you. He said he had been talking to Macalaurë's foster-son, and was very interested to know all about you and your relationship with your family."

"It isn't Artanis's spouse, is it now?"

"No."

"Not Celebrian?"

"Of course not."

"Who?"

"A curious individual by the name of Glorfindel."

With a pop, Glorfindel appeared in the room, sitting on the chair that had been placed for him, with a notebook and quill in hand, and looking quite flustered and out of place. He caught sight of Fëanor, and his eyes went wide. His hand tightened around the quill.

"Forgive me, Lord Fëanor, I did not expect to be transported quite so suddenly, nor so dramatically into your noble presence. It would be preferable to me and the Elven public if you were to answer some questions—"

"Spit it out," Fëanor drawled.

"Of course, of course, Lord Fëanor," said Glorfindel. "You see—"

"Not ... _Fëanor_." He spoke the name with a mixture of derision and scorn, as if a Balrog had nested itself within the name. "If you are to be in my presence, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, and wish for my full cooperation, then you are to address me by my proper name and title. It is Fëanáro, or the High King of the Noldor, or this interview shall not proceed."

Glorfindel stared at him, astonished and intimidated. "Y-Yes, Lord Fëanáro."

"Good. Then continue."

"I've-heard-rumours-about-how-you-mistreated-your-sons-and-forced-them-to-smith-when-they-would-rather-be-doing-something-else-like-playing-music-now-that-is-only-an-example-obviously-they-didn't-all-way-to-play-music—"

"What?" Fëanor interrupted.

Glorfindel forced himself to breathe. "You were ... mistreating your sons. And you forced them to... smith ... when they didn't want to. My sources say—"

"Nonsense," said Fëanor. "My sons all wanted to smith. Except ... well, I was going to disown him, but that would have just started rumours, so I had to lock him in the basement and pretend he was too busy making music. That kept everybody happy. Of course I made sure he had no access to any instrument whatsoever during the time he was kept down there."

Glorfindel was horrified. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it again like a gaping fish.

"Next question," Fëanor snapped.

"Maglor said you never hugged him!" Glorfindel blurted out.

"What's a Maglor?"

The Elf would have fainted from that statement, until he remembered Fëanor's utter contempt for anything which isn't Quenya (or Fëanorian Tengwar) and that he had certainly never bothered learning or remember Sindarin names.

"Ma ... Macalaurë," he said faintly.

"Oh. Right. That's what a Maglor is. They were always talking about Maglor this and Maglor that, and how Maglor finally returned to Valinor after several Ages. I thought they were talking about a long-lost treasure. Like my Silmarils." His eyes glinted.

"Anyway," said Glorfindel hastily, "Macalaurë claims you never hugged him. Is that true?"

"Of course not, I hugged him many times. I'll give you a hug count if you want. Nelyafinwë: Four hundred and eighty-seven times. Turkafinwë: Three hundred and fifty-three times. Morifinwë: Three hundred and one times. Curufinwë: Three thousand seven hundred and forty-times. Ambarussa: Two hundred and eighty-one times each. There, see?"

Glorfindel, who had been taking rapid notes on his notepad, looked up. "You forgot Macalaurë."

"What?"

"You said everyone except Macalaurë."

"Nonsense."

"It's true, Fëanáro," Mandos boomed.

Fëanor glanced darkly at the ceiling. "Very well. I hugged Kanafinwë exactly ... twice. Once when he was born and the second time when Nerdanel insisted I give him a bath."

Glorfindel's mouth dropped open, and just hung there like a broken hinge.

Fëanor grinned smugly. "Only kidding, you know. I hugged Kanafinwë more than all my other sons combined."

Glorfindel's mouth, if possible, opened wider.

"Kidding again," Fëanor smirked. "I can't actually remember how many times I've hugged them. Too many to count, I suppose."

Glorfindel staggered out of the Halls of Mandos, mentally scarred.

And Fëanor, sitting in his new body in the corner of a nice room, reflected on how nice it was to have such gullible Elves around.

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><p>Did he actually hug them?Well, that's up to you.<p> 


	8. Surprising Similarities

Prompt: One-handed Maedhros vs one-handed Albus Dumbledore. Also: Translating (If you don't know what a Babelfish is, please read the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy right now.) and Voldemort vs Morgoth (spoken about) and Maedhros and Fingon (lightl touched upon)

Excuse my utter lack of characterisation. I can't write in the HP fandom to save my life.

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><p>It was late. Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, staring through his half-moon spectacles at the wizened sight that was once his hand. There is a knock on the door, and it opened without consent. But the Headmaster didn't mind. His guest was a different one, from a far distant land.<p>

Maedhros, eldest son of Feanor, bowed as he entered, then sat himself down on the chair with all the regal purpose of a king. His copper hair cascaded down in curls, his eyes bright and fiery, his clothes in pristine condition despite his travel.

"The portkey worked, then?" Dumbledore said, pleased.

"Yes." The Babelfish was also working – a fish Dumbledore had taken the liberty to insert into his ear to understand what Maedhros was talking about. The Noldorin Prince, understandably, would do no such thing, so Dumbledore had to use a simple spell of languages.

"Long journey?" said Dumbledore.

Maedhros grimaced. "Yes. You placed the port-ki in Nargothrond. That is several weeks of travel for me."

"Please accept my sincere apologies. I was told there were lots of Elves in Nar..."

"Nargothrond."

"Yes, and I wasn't quite sure where you lived."

"Himring."

"Of course."

"Nonetheless," Maedhros continued, "I am pleased to be here. It is not every day that I am to be interviewed on such a subject. Your hand ... is black."

Dumbledore chuckled. "It was marred by magic. May I see your, uh..."

Maedhros lifted his right arm onto the table, and pulled back his sleeve. "Cut off by my cousin," he said, matter-of-factedly, without allowing any emotion into his voice, "to free me from a prison."

"Your cousin? Nice chap, I suppose?"

Maedhros frowned. "Nice ... nice what?"

"You know. Nice person, to just go around cutting people's hands—"

"He was the greatest of the Noldor," Maedhros snapped. "Fingon the Valiant, they called him. I would have died but for him. Better my hand than my death."

"I see," Dumbledore said, as he mused over the hand. "And you were taken prisoner by the Dark Lord?"

"Morgoth himself."

"Who is, if I may say, less of a horror than our own current Dark Lord, Voldemort?"

Maedhros's expression darkened. "Less than your Lord ... whatever? _Less_? He is Melkor, the Dark Power of the World, the most powerful Ainu of Eru Iluvatar, the creator of Orcs, and all things evil. Balrogs and trolls, dragons and vampires, werewolves, giant spiders and numerous unnamed terrors of the Black Gate of Angband. Built like a mountain, with a hammer to crush all. Your Lord Voldiyort cannot compete."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, I quite agree."

Maedhros smiled smugly.

"But," Dumbledore continued, "Lord Voldemort is yet to be stabbed in the foot."

Maedhros scowled.


	9. Spirit of Fire

Prompt: Kill it with fire (TVTropes). I've taken artistic liscence to change it just a little.

Okay so, this is probably the strangest style I have ever written in. It was so much more coherent in my head. But I kind of like it. This of this as Maedhros's tormented soul, reflecting at the end of his life.

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><p>My father used to say 'Fire is life.' He was right. He was always right.<p>

It began with him, of course, because he begins all. He's like a flame in Tirion, shining brighter than the Trees, eyes burning with passion.

The first person he touched was his mother, my grandmother, Lady Miriel Serindë. She couldn't bear it, his strong spirit, and fled. Then he touched _his_ father, and the High King cradled the flame, fed it whatever it wished, and it grew. Grew into the first son of Finwë. Grew into Fëanáro.

Then he touched my mother, and for a while she could endure the flame. But after me, and after my six brothers, she could endure no longer. Father had touched all of us.

"Fire is life," he said. Easy for him to say. He was the Spirit of Fire, the very embodiment, shimmering like a flame under the sun. And yet he was under control, never wild, never seeking to gain what he could not get. But one day... one day that fire will grow, grow bigger, bigger and uncontrollable.

Then it will start. But not yet.

"Fire is also death," I replied. Too many times have I burnt myself handling it.

"There is no death without life," he said, and smiled, and turned back to his work, forging in the sea of flames where he belonged.

Then he touched the _Silmarilli_, and they too shone, burning with a beautiful, ethereal light. Too bright. It was taken.

"Fight fire with fire," my father said, and touched the Ships, and _they_ crumbled to ash. He touched the very core of Arda, he touched history, touched a legacy for him, and for us all.

But fire is sudden. It is unstable. It is uncontrollable. A bigger fire came, demons of shadow and flame. _Fight fire with fire... _So the enemy did. My father was right. He was always right.

Then _he_ crumbled to ash, and scattered about in the wind, and the world lost the brightest flame to ever walk those shores.

But I know something else, too. It is in me. In my brothers. In all of us. My life began with fire, and it will end so. Then I can say I have not disappointed him. He who has provided me life. And death. And a legacy to stand by.

He begins all. The skilled son of Finwë. The Spirit of Fire.


End file.
